Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

I’ve been perfect . And all I wanted in exchange for my suffering was a little comfort from a Tuscan tanner. He kissed me on the balcony of the Quisisana last year when Roman Falconi stood me up on our Capri vacation. He asked me to consider his affections on my roof overlooking the Hudson River. But that was then. Today, all of Gianluca’s previous declarations seemed to dry up and blow away like Italian snow when he brought Carlotta to the wedding.

And now, who can imagine why, my self-confidence has…waned. I’m back at Holy Agony when I turned thirteen and was caught in the coat closet by Sister Imelda in the arms of Bret Fitzpatrick after our confirmation dinner. She didn’t say a word, that prying postulant; she just slammed the door shut and left us in the dark with our shame. There is such a thing as the ruined moment, the missed opportunity, love derailed. I should know. I’ve lived it more than once.

“May I come in?” he asks again.

“Okay,” I answer, with a sense of defeat. “Careful of the pearls.” I gingerly kick the puddle of faux under the bed as he closes the door behind him. “There’s only one chair,” I apologize. I’m downright awkward, offering a tour of the two pieces of furniture in my room.

“I make you nervous?”

“No, no, not at all.” Only in the land of Valentine Maria Alfreda Roncalli would pent-up sexual energy translate into a case of dyspepsia.

He sits down in the rocker. He stretches his long legs out in front of him. He wears a size 13 shoe. He fills up this hotel room with a lot of man.

“Would you like a glass of…I think it’s wine?” I offer.

“Grazie ,” he says.

I go to the table. There’s only one glass. Of course there’s only one glass-this is the spinster suite. I’m lucky Signora left me a bowl of free figs. “Uh, we’ll have to share,” I tell him as I pour the wine.

“Good,” he says.

I bring him the glass. He takes a sip and leans back in the rocker and looks at me.

I sit as far forward on the edge of the bed as I possibly can be without actually standing up. I sort of…perch. Let’s get the bad news out of the way first. “So, where’s Carlotta?”

“I drove her to Deruta, where she lives.”

“Oh, great.” I don’t know what’s so great about it, but too late now, I said it. “I always liked Deruta. Pretty pottery.”

“And what did you think of Carlotta?”

“That was some mink.”

Gianluca laughs. “She’s very elegant.”

“That would be one word for it.”

Gianluca looks confused.

“If the men in my family took a vote, I think they’d come up with a word to describe her, and it wouldn’t be elegant . How long have you been seeing her?”

“Seeing her?”

“Yeah.”

“Since I was nine years old.”

“Nine?” Boy. No wonder they are considered the world’s best lovers. They practice. These Italians start early.

“Her father makes the equipment we use in the shop.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.” I don’t find it one bit interesting. I could not care less. I lean forward and take the glass from Gianluca and sip the wine. I hand the glass back to him. “Childhood romances are wonderful.”

“She told you?”

“No, I just assumed.”

“Why?”

“The way you were together, I guess. I’m like that with Bret.”

“Bret?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, Bret Fitzpatrick and I finish each other’s sentences-still. We broke up years ago, but we’re still close. There’s a history. It’s comfortable.” I hope he’s jealous of Bret; it would serve him right for sandbagging me by bringing Carlotta to the wedding. So I pile on. “There’s a shorthand with an ex who knows you well. You know, like you have with Carlotta. I’m sure you know everything about one another.”

He nods.

I continue, “So, how did you like the wedding?”

“I’m happy for my father. And for Teodora.”

“Orsola tells me that you’re going to take over the shop and let Dominic retire.”

Gianluca’s expression changes at the mention of his daughter’s name. He smiles. “Papa would like that. He wants to spend all of his time with your grandmother. I would like that, too.”

“They want to enjoy every moment,” I agree. But I was surprised how quickly Gram was able to let go of making shoes. It’s almost as if a key turned, leading her into Dominic’s house and out of our workroom.

Gianluca rocks in the chair. “It’s a good lesson for everyone.”

“Absolutely. Seize the moment.” I gulp the wine while sharing the wisdom stitched on my mother’s pot holders.

“Maybe you will come to Arezzo more often?”

“I don’t need an excuse. I love it here.”

“Va bene .”

Once the va bene s start rolling, we’re on common ground. At least, that was true in Capri-in the past. I get up and refill the glass with the pink potion.

“And you?” Gianluca asks. “How do you feel about today?”

My eyes fill with tears. I hate this wine! It’s filling me with false emotions. No one should drink when they’re sad. “I’m going to miss Gram.”

Gianluca gets up and goes to the nightstand. He picks up his handkerchief, then he sits down on the bed beside me. He dries my tears.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to cry. But I think I’ve almost drunk that entire bottle of…what is this, anyway?”

“Vin Santo. Dessert wine. Isole e Olena.”

“I should at least know the name of what I’m killing the pain with.”

“What pain?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me pick from the bouquet of despair. Let’s start with the A’s: abandonment.” The tears flow freely again. I grab the handkerchief out of his hand and dab them.

“Your grandmother has a life to lead-on her own, without you.”

“I know!”

“So what is the problem?” he says softly.

“I’m going to end up old and alone and stabbing wedding cakes like Aunt Feen.” I sob. The thought of this terrible fate makes me feel worse. I can’t stop crying.

“I don’t believe it,” he says.

“Why would you? You won’t end up alone. You’ve got Madame Mink.” I might as well take a political stand for PETA if I’m never going to kiss Gianluca. “You know, I don’t even believe in wearing fur.”

“You don’t?” He smiles.

“I don’t know. It’s not the mink. It’s her . She’s…spectacular.”

“She is very beautiful.”

I cry into the handkerchief. “Yes, she is.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yes, I did. I’ve made you sad.”

His admission shuts down my waterworks like a lever. At times, Gianluca speaks English better than me, and other times, he has a difficult time expressing himself in anything but Italian, but occasionally he’s as sharp as a needle no matter the language, so pointed he goes right to the center of things. “You want the truth? Yes, you did make me sad.”

He smiles.

“You think that’s funny?”

“No, it’s not funny.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I knew.” He smiles again. “You care about me.”

I get up and move to the window. I throw it open for air.

“Come here,” he says softly.

“No, thanks.” I turn away from the night air and stand behind the rocker and hold the back of it with two hands like a medieval shield separating me, the lowly single handmaiden, from the Duke of Delish.

“Why not?” He seems surprised.

“I feel played. You know, misled. You had a shot with me last night. I thought you were sending me signals at the rehearsal dinner, which now, in retrospect, were real. But then you blew it today. You brought Carlotta to the reception. I had a whole thing in my head, a perfect little fantasy percolating, about how things were going to go between us at the reception. I thought we’d talk, have a cocktail or two, maybe a little pasta followed by a slice of cake after the knife throwing, we’d share a cup of espresso, a little dancing-you know, typical wedding rituals that lead the single people to partake of wedding-night rituals without any of the paperwork.”